Convergence
by oneiromancer242
Summary: Peter was just going for a quiet run on the beach whilst on-call during a mission in Los Angeles. He didn't expect to run into a girl who thinks she knows him, or a boy he hoped he would never have to set eyes on again. Bad language throughout, you have been warned.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N : So I'm re-watching "Murder House", this time with a friend who's never seen it, and I just couldn't resist another little crossover! rated for language, sexual references, and because Tate didn't want to be in a K-rated piece.**

1.

As missions went, this was probably one of the best he'd ever been on. Spying on enemy agents? No problem. Following people through the crowded LA streets? Easy as pie. Being given the night off, since the rest of the team were busy staking out a lab they were pretty sure was trying to weaponise that 'cure'? – even better. If only it hadn't been *this* night though, that he was left to amuse himself but remained on call at a moment's notice back to the team in case anything went wrong.

Why did they have to keep him on call on Hallowe'en of all nights? Peter loved Hallowe'en in a way that most people had grown out of. He loved disguises, trick or treating, scary stories and unwise amounts of candy more than any adult he knew. And Hallowe'en here in Los Angeles was even better than his usual New York-based celebrations. For a start, it wasn't freezing cold here, and for once he wasn't doing too much complaining about being cold when everyone else was begging for a window to be opened. He'd tried to stay in, watch the evening marathon of horror movies, called home to make sure the kids were having a great time and hearing the riot going on in the house indicating that they were, and finally decided that if he couldn't go trick or treating, he was at least getting out of the house for a while. Jean would be able to reach him, even if he was nowhere near a telephone.

Peter's memory for street layouts was usually pretty good, which was why he'd been unpleasantly surprised when he'd passed the sign for Berro Drive on his run. Oh hell no – not there, not now and not ever again. Quickly turning to run toward the coast instead, avoiding the house that still occasionally took a guest spot in his nightmares. Smiling to himself and slowing to a walk to enjoy the lap of waves on the beach, the fresh but not cold breeze on his face. Peter had always loved the sea, remembered a few family holidays basking on beaches with enormous fondness, and was always glad to be near it. Not in it though – boats did nothing for him, and he still wasn't the greatest swimmer.

This though, this was perfect. Calm and balmy and soothing to the soul in a way that was just what he needed right now. Stuffing his hands into his pockets, sauntering along smelling the salt and the smoke from a bonfire somewhere, caught up in a pleasant dreamy state before he had frowned and peered off into the darkness.

Up ahead, he was sure he could see someone – a small, slight someone with long straight hair falling from under a hat, sitting with their knees tucked up tight to their chest. As he came closer, he could make out the figure of a young girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, sitting staring out at the waves. Something in her expression – melancholy, troubled – seemed off, and against his better judgement he had changed his path to walk toward her. He took care to tread heavily, knowing that he often made people jump – he might be a soft touch and concerned at seeing someone so young out here by herself in the dark, but he wasn't an idiot. This was still LA, and people here were even more aggressive to strangers than they were back home in New York. To his surprise she didn't turn at the sound of his approach, not even when he had reached the little circle of rocks she sat in and called out.

"Hey…. Umm, are you alright?"

"Of course I am," she answered, her voice sounded weary and sarcastic, "Why are you putting on that weird accent?"

He didn't have an answer for that, gaped for words for a moment before the girl had finally spoken again

"Are you gonna come here or what? I'm cold, sit with me" she'd turned then to look at him, and her smirk had vanished to be replaced with a look of shock, puzzlement, and embarrassment, "Shit… I'm sorry, I thought you were someone else!"

She pushed that long poker-straight hair behind her ears, gave him apologetic little smile. To her relief he only laughed quietly at her, smiled and creeped her out. That smile – wide and sweet with little unexpected dimples, perfect white teeth – on closer inspection, in fact, everything about him creeped her out just a little bit with its familiarity as much as its differences. She started to wonder if she hadn't been confused at all. If he wasn't the stranger she had initially taken him for…

"You're sure you're okay then?" he asked, stepped a couple of paces closer, "Just, you look awful young to be out here alone so late"

"I'm waiting for someone" she said, narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, "Is this a joke? Seriously, if you're fucking with me, I will be so pissed"

"Me? What? Why would I –"

"I know it's Hallowe'en and all but I didn't expect you to come dressed up" she spat at him. Peter was getting seriously confused at this point, "What are you supposed to be anyway? Some rock star? I can't *believe* you, I give you one more chance to explain things to me and you show up like this, it's like you –"

"Whoah, whoah!" Peter said, held up his palms in innocence, stepped closer, "I have no idea who are you are, OK? And I think you might be confusing me with someone. Stay cool"

"Yeah nice try, Tate" she told him with a sneer, started to get to her feet, "If you wanted to prank me, we do not-live in the same house, freakin' psycho"

 _Oh no…_ Peter thought, swallowed the lump that had suddenly risen in his throat, _Not this. Not again…._

"Violet!" a voice called from not too far away, she swung round in confusion. Peter froze, thought about bolting, found his feet wouldn't obey him, "Vi! Wait! I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to be late"

The approaching boy reached them, put his hands on his hips, breathing hard, looking like he'd just run all the way down from the house on Berro Drive without the benefit of a speed-adapted physiology. His cheeks were a little flushed, hair messier than ever.

"Man I'm so out of shape," he panted, "Who'd have thought I used to run track huh?"

The girl only looked at him, looked back at Peter standing frozen in fear to the spot. Looked between the two again with her mouth hanging open a little stupidly. At last, Tate noticed him, came closer still, frowned at him.

"Don't I know you?" he asked.


	2. Chapter 2

2

 _"_ _Don't I know you?"….._

No, you don't, Peter thought. You know very little, if you think you know anything about me from one very brief, very strange meeting a long time ago. In an instant all the terror and creeping weirdness of that old house and its inhabitants had come pouring back into Peter's conscious mind. That face that he wanted to forget, the one that lacked his sweetness but had most of the rest of his features – and apparently, they even shared a very similar voice. The last time he'd seen that face, it had been in a newspaper – accompanied by a headline that still haunted him today "Massacre at Westfield High School". He still recalled taking that newspaper outside to one of the buckets the Professor kept for the inevitable smokers to extinguish their butts, holding a match to it until it caught and watching as the face that was his and not his had been consumed by the licking flames. He had hoped that was the last time he would see it outside of those awful dreams he sometimes had. When he spoke again, it was not to reply to Tate but to the girl standing looking shocked and confused between them.

"Violet, is it?" he spoke in a low voice, hoping it hid his nerves, "You know this kid?"

"Yeah, we used to date! Dude, who *are* you?" Turning to Tate, who was hanging back a little, watching the scene play out, "How many brothers do you have again?"

"Two" he smirked, "And he's not one of them. It's Pete, right? I'm so bad with names"

"Peter" he corrected, "Violet, I think you should probably stay away from this guy. I don't think you know him as well as you might think – he's dangerous"

"No _shit_ " Violet drawled, gave him a look as if he'd just pointed out that the water was very wet today, "and you didn't answer me"

This time, to Peter's immense surprise, Tate had jumped to his rescue. Stepped in to very gently offer a hand to Violet, give her that appealing smile that turned Peter's stomach with how like his own it was

"It's cool Vi, he's a friend of mine. We knew each other back when I was alive" his eyes flicked up to meet Peter's, black and soulless in the moonlight, "You still dig QMS?"

When he was alive? Peter blinked hard, nodded dumbly to his question. Of course, he'd known Tate was dead – shot seventeen times by a SWAT team as he recalled, and it was amazing how clearly he remembered that newspaper article, as though trying to forget it had only cemented it more clearly in his memory. What made less sense was how he was here talking to him. Peter wondered if eating as much candy as he had earlier had been such a great idea, if he was so high on sugar he was hallucinating.

Seemingly taken in by that gentle gesture, Violet had sat back down in the sand, Tate joining her, and she was fishing around in her bag for something. In a moment she'd pulled out a bottle of cheap vodka, cracked the top and taken a long pull from it, screwing up her face at the taste. Peter remembered that particular nasty brand – it smelled like paint stripper, and had pretty much the same effect on your insides.

"You might as well sit down," she was saying, again in that weary tone, "Catch up with Tate why don't you. I guess it's not every day he runs into a friend"

He could tell by the way she leaned sarcastically on the word that she knew that was because he didn't have any. It affronted Peter to be put in that imaginary group, but he'd sat down anyway, waved away the bottle when it was offered to him, heard Tate scoff at him from the other side of the girl.

"What?" he demanded

"It's not poisoned" he could hear the smirk in Tate's voice, hated it, "take a drink"

"I don't drink – and you kids are too young"

"Sorry, *Dad*" Violet sneered. Her companion sniggered.

"You don't drink? Do you make all your own dresses too?"

"Shut up, kid – and for the record we are not friends"

"Taking that as a yes" he grinned, added in a mutter, "pussy…"

Peter hated to think of himself as capable of unjust violence. Ripping up trainer bots and decking enemies aside, he hadn't thrown a punch in anger since he'd been at high school and under some of the worst stress of his life. As such, even he had been surprised when he had been around Violet in a fraction of a second, throwing Tate back into the sand, and landing a punch he had only managed to pull at the last moment straight on his left eye.

As though his touch had raised those memories, Peter could not help but think of the other faces in the newspaper, the yearbook photographs of kids of sixteen and seventeen smiling for the camera and not knowing that their lives would end at the hands of some stupid boy with inferiority issues. The thought of those faces blinded him with rage, and before he knew it he was pulling his fist back to strike again and again, only stopped when Violet had unexpectedly brought one Doc Marten boot into forceful contact with his cheekbone.

"What the FUCK is wrong with you?!" she was shouting at him, sprawled out in the sand beside his double, "Leave him alone!"

He should have left it there. Should have got to his feet and sprinted away, tried once again to forget. But the girl looked so small, so vulnerable, and damn it his blood was up now – no point in trying to deny how unexpectedly angry the sudden appearance of his Evil Twin had made him. Instead of doing the sensible thing, he had instead got up, fixed Violet with a hard look, demanded

"Don't you know what he did?! How many lives he ended for no good reason?"

Violet wasn't looking him. To Peter's astonishment, she was bending to help Tate sit back up, cuffing blood away from his nose with the sleeve of his sweater. The black eye was already miraculously fading – faster even than Peter could heal. Violet didn't look up at him, but held Tate's gaze as she said quietly

"I know all that, and worse. You don't know the half of what he's done" she straightened, pulled her hand away from where he still had hold of it, looked down at him with a sadness in her face that it hurt Peter to see, "I'm sorry. I thought I was ready to see you again. Turns out I'm not"

He reached to grab the hand back, but too late – she was gone. Peter stared at the space where she had been, ran off a little way, turning in circles, looking around for where she had gone, but she had seemingly vanished into thin air. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised – one of his best friends was a teleporter after all, and it wasn't like his night could get any stranger. At least, he didn't think it could, until he'd turned back to where his doppelganger was sat cross-legged in the sand and realised with a little jolt that he was sobbing his heart out.

 _I should go,_ Peter thought, watched the thin shoulders heave with sobs, _he deserves this, I should just go and leave him to it._ His anger had cooled off, gone as fast as it had emerged, and in its place was a creeping sadness for this lost little boy sat crying on the beach in the middle of the night. Peter might not have been able to stand the thought of what Tate had done, might have thought he deserved to be punished, but right at that moment his heart was breaking just a little for the boy. Again he tried to go, but found he couldn't leave Tate there like this. He couldn't stand to see a kid cry, even one with a heart as dark as this one. He heaved a heavy sigh, trudged back through the sand, and sat down beside the crying boy.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N : I'm aware that there's an issue at the moment with reviews not displaying, but I assure you that I'm receiving your reviews by email, and thanks for your encouragement as always.**

3

Violet had left the bottle of nasty vodka behind. Peter considered it for the briefest of instants, thought of that morning after his fortieth birthday, and decided not to touch it after all. Comforting crying children was one of his specialities, but usually he felt genuinely bad for the child in question – this was totally different. This time, he was halfway sure he was only sticking around to make sure that Tate was good and upset, finding the thought oddly satisfying. That wasn't like him, he knew, and truthfully the other half of his being really did want to help. He'd sat for what felt like a long while listening to the sobs and sniffles from beside him, kept his hands fastened around his knees, stared out into the ocean and tried to rationalise exactly how his night had ended up this way, with a crying spree-killer sat beside him seeming to edge a little closer to his body until their shoulders were touching. At last the sobbing had eased off, seeming to have blown over like a summer storm, leaving behind silence and misery in its wake that was broken when Tate had asked

"Why'd you hit me? I never did anything to you"

"Apart from call me a pussy"

"Well…. Yeah, apart from that"

Peter sighed again, stared at the sand between his feet, anywhere but at the damp, puffy dark eyes that were regarding him from under a messy tangle of dark blonde curls. In all honesty, that really wasn't enough to provoke him. He heard worse from his wife on a daily basis, had grown up with insults being a favoured method of communication between himself and his sisters, would not have risen to it if he hadn't already been in a high state of emotional arousal – and anger was easier to deal with than fear.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, risked a glance, the black eye now almost gone, "I did try to go easy on you"

"It's fine, I'm getting used to punches. Besides you look a lot worse than me," he tried out a little smile, half a weak little effort that somehow only made him look more sad, "Vi has a hell of a kick on her"

Peter had to agree, gingerly feeling the sore patch on his cheekbone that was now radiating achy little tendrils all the way up to his eyebrow. He wouldn't be surprised if he ended up with an impressive black eye himself from that, wondered if he'd tell the team he'd been kicked in the face by a teenage girl or make up some less embarrassing accident. Like running into a lamp-post again. Beside him, Tate had reached for the bottle and unscrewed the cap, taking several big gulps and again offering it over.

"Really, no thanks. Made myself really ill one time – keep drinking like that and you'll soon find out why I stopped"

Tate shrugged morosely, took another drink. Outside of the house with its heavy atmosphere, he seemed a lot less creepy. A lot more like the vulnerable, hurting kid Peter had originally taken him for. Though he tried to dismiss the thought, he reminded him of himself at that age, looked uncomfortable in his own skin with something dark and raw glinting in those eyes that were too much like his own. They stayed quiet a while, watching the waves lap at the shore, night breeze stirring both their hair into further disarray, until Peter had at last said

"Why did you kill those kids, Tate? Did they do something to you?"

The other boy didn't look up, shook his head

"It seemed like the right thing to do" he said quietly, "This world… it's such an ugly shitshow, man. I didn't want to live in it. Thought they would be better off out of it"

"And that justifies a massacre in your head?" Peter asked incredulously, "You've got serious problems dude. Nothing justifies that"

"The fuck would you know?" Tate bit back, at last looked at him, "You've probably never felt that way in your life. I bet you had a nice little family and a nice little house and a nice boring little life and you never had to think about all that crap, too busy getting along with your life and staying on that narrow track people laid for you"

"I'd be very careful who you say that to. For your information, my life was a long way from perfect but somehow *I* refrained from shooting up my school. You're not the only one with problems, you selfish little shit"

"Oh really? What was so bad for you then? Why are you so qualified to tell me what's right and wrong?" He took another long drink, Peter didn't caution him this time. Let the brat make himself sick if he wanted, "What makes you so much better than me?"

"You know, it's strange, but I really don't feel like sharing my problems with a dumb little asshole who thinks he's doing people a favour by *killing* them" Peter growled, "But let's start with knowing what it's like to feel different, and having just a little experience of how crappy the world can be, shall we? And I'm no better than you, I just have a little more control over myself than you do"

As if to prove his point, Tate had abruptly dropped the sarcastic glare he had been wearing and instead, Peter could see tears standing in his eyes again. Angry tears now, but still there nonetheless.

"Seriously? You're crying *again*?" he rolled his eyes, "It's no wonder that Violet girl didn't want to be near you if all you ever do is weep on her"

Even as he said it Peter felt like a huge hypocrite, knowing that he still did more than his fair share of getting wound up and crying on people, and that at Tate's age he'd been even worse. The boy didn't reply, and Peter finally succumbed to the part of himself that really didn't like to see people upset, hardly believing he was doing it but nevertheless putting an arm across Tate's back and patting his shoulder kindly. This time he didn't dissolve into full-body sobbing, but sat staring at the sand as fat droplets of saltwater ran down his face, steadily working his way down the bottle of vodka. By the time he spoke again there was a noticeable slur in his voice.

"I don't blame you for punching me y'know" he said, kept his head hung low, "I would, I guess. It helps when people do that"

"Do what? Punch you in the face?"

"Yeah," another sad little smile, "I let the kids I killed beat me up one time. I think it helped them move on. And other people I hurt too – they've all had a turn. Maybe if I let them punish me, eventually it'll help them get better"

"What about you though?" Peter asked, "How are you going to get better?"

He felt the shrug, a hopeless little gesture that seemed born out of absolute defeat, and suddenly felt sorry for ever thinking that there was nothing there but a murderer. Realised that just as nobody had ever tried to understand Tate when he was alive, nobody had ever given him half a chance in death either. Wondered what he himself would have turned out like if nobody had been there for him, if he'd just stayed isolated and scared and desperately wanting to be part of the world but not having the faintest idea how to go about that. Tightened his grip a little and felt the little blonde head roll over to rest on his shoulder.

"Maybe you need to stop punishing yourself for that to happen?" he suggested.


	4. Chapter 4

4

A Mutant and a ghost were sat together on a beach… it sounded like the start of a really odd joke to Peter. In fact, this whole evening had seemed like one long very strange, not particularly funny joke. Or maybe some sort of fever dream, either way it wasn't how he had imagined spending his Hallowe'en night. Tate had stopped crying at last, had got to within an inch of the bottom of the bottle, and seemed fairly unwilling to take his own weight. A couple of times Peter had tried to shove him off, but he'd just slipped straight back and snuggled his head into Peter's shoulder again. The older man rolled his eyes, gave him another firm shove

"Dude, you're not passing out on me" he said firmly, "I'm only here because I hate seeing people sad, don't take that to mean I like you"

"But you're _comfy_ " Tate whined, "And I'm tired!"

"You're not tired, you're drunk. And you're not the adorable cuddlebug you think you are, so get the hell off me and I'll try to get you home so you can pass out somewhere safe"

Frustratingly, Tate had given him a wavery, unsteady look and seemed at first to be moving off, but had instead just flopped across Peter's legs on his back, staring up at the clear night sky. Despite his own out-of-proportion strength, Peter couldn't budge him. He must be one of those people who could shift all their weight into one spot if they felt like it, and Peter found himself absolutely pinned. Seemingly with little else to be done, he had sat quietly for a few minutes then said.

"Do you feel bad about what you did?"

"Course," Tate muttered, "M'not a psychopath no matter what anyone says. I got feelings. S'just the world's too big, it gets on top of me"

"I can relate" Peter sighed, figured Tate probably wouldn't remember any of this in the morning, "It's been pretty tough on me too. But I was lucky I suppose – I had stuff you didn't"

"Like what?"

"Good family, love… that sort of stuff. I get the feeling you didn't have that"

Tate was quiet for a while, laying with his eyes closed, and Peter wondered if he'd dozed off. That would just be perfect, having to spend the whole night out here with a drunk teenager passed out on his legs, but soon enough he'd murmured

"D'ya think I could have been like you, if I'd had that stuff?" a pause, a little hiccup, "or d'ya think people are born bad and can't be changed or what?"

Peter thought of his father, smiled sadly at the boy in his lap, who seemed to have developed a bad case of hiccups and was desperately holding his breath to make them go away. Erik had surely killed more people than Tate had ever done, had been worse in almost every way and terrible at being a human being – the difference being that Erik wasn't human, of course. Still, if he hadn't had the faith of his son and the friendship of the Professor, he might never have been the father he was today. Maybe all Tate really needed was someone to believe in his ability to change, and to convince himself of the possibility, and things would be different. Then again, maybe not – and that someone certainly wasn't going to be Peter.

"I think it depends on the person" he replied at last, "and how badly they want to"

"I want to" Tate gasped, thought for a minute the hiccups had gone, then was proven wrong.

"They try. And for god's sakes get off my legs, I need those"

Eventually, after a great deal of encouragement, Peter had managed to get Tate vaguely upright, though he still had to hold him up with one of the boy's arms flung around his neck. He could hardly stand up, and Peter considered carrying him back to the house before quickly changing his mind. The unable-to-stand-upright phase usually immediately preceded the projectile vomiting phase in his experience, and there was no way the kid was being sick on him.

It had felt like a long way to Berro Drive with the boy's weight hanging around him, continually forcing him to stagger to keep his balance. How could he be so _heavy_? Even with full-density bones he couldn't weigh that much more than Peter, was slight and delicate-looking like himself, but being unable to put his feet in a straight line was seemingly making him double the burden on the unfortunate Mutant. The place looked abandoned when he had finally got to the door, but he'd been pleased to find that the front door opened easily, dragging the staggering lump over to a sofa covered in plastic and gratefully dumping him down. In the process of stretching out his aching shoulders when a woman's voice from behind him had startled him.

"Awww, did Wittle Princess Tate stay out too late? Good thing you brought him home before he turned into a pumpkin"

The owner of the voice was possibly one of the most unattractive women Peter had ever seen, not just because of her appearance but mainly the ugly smirk she wore. He didn't reply, turned back away from her and manhandled Tate into laying on the sofa on his side, kneeling to unlace his battered black Converse and place them beside him. The woman had moved around, was leaning over the sofa in a manner that Peter presumed was meant to be seductive, but which made him feel slightly nauseated.

"You could have just left him out there" Hayden continued, "he'd only have died of exposure for a little while"

"And how would you like that?" Peter grunted at her, standing and noticing with pleasure that he towered over her, "Someone's got to look out for kids like him. I assume you would have left him?"

"Honey, I would have chopped off his head and put it on a spike on the front gate, but that's just me"

"Yeah? Well do me a big favour" he stepped closer, knew he was invading her space, "No decapitation, no pain, no anything. Sharpie his face with all the dicks you like, for all I care, but don't hurt him. There's been enough of that"

"Well aren't you the hero?" her voice dripped venom, "big brother?"

"I'm nobody" Peter told her, "he's not. Try not to treat him as if he is, okay?"

Feeling a tug on his pants leg, Peter glanced down and saw that Tate had managed to open his eyes a crack, murmured a very quiet, very slurred thanks before he had finally slid off into deep sodden unconsciousness.

"Cute" Hayden sneered. Peter nailed her with a look.

"Read my lips, lady" he told her, "Leave him alone. Go. Away"

Just like that, she was gone, and the house was silent except for the groaning of floorboards and the settling of the old beams. Peter shook his head, took one last look at the figure sprawled on the sofa snoring away, and gladly vacated the premises.

By the time Tate had stirred the next morning to a pitcher of cold water being dumped over his head by Moira, Peter had been long gone, not so much as a silver hair of him remaining to say it hadn't all been a particularly vivid hallucination. However, he couldn't help but feel, somewhere under the misery of a hideous hangover, a little glad that someone had done him the good turn of at least getting him back to the house. Whilst Hayden was right, and it wouldn't have hurt for long to be left out on the beach to freeze or choke on vomit, it did leave behind the tiniest little spark of self-worth to have been helped home.

Maybe, he thought, if he was very careful he'd be able to kindle that spark into something better. Maybe a little kindness would last him a long way, even if it was from a stranger who quite obviously hated him for what he'd done. And maybe next Hallowe'en, if he grabbed onto the tiny bit of light that spark could bring, he wouldn't manage to drive Violet away yet again.

-END-


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